French Fries and Hazel Eyes
by DreamsAreMyWords
Summary: "This was not the first time things had been so sexually-tense between us. I wanted her in all the ways I shouldn't. I fucking reveled in it as much as I agonized. The only difference was this was the first time we'd almost actually done something about it. And fuck me if I wasn't hoping for another opportunity." Quinntana AU. Prequel to Fate on Fire.


**A/N: Hello lovely readers, this is the prequel to Fate on Fire. It's the life of Santana and Quinn BEFORE all hell broke loose. It tells how they got together, their friendship before all the angst in FOF, etc. Rated M for later chapters.**

**Please review, as they give me incentive to write and make me so happy! Let me know your opinion of this, and if you've read FOF, then especially let me know what you think. (also, don't worry, I am still writing FOF, it's just been a busy busy summer).**

**Anways, enjoy and let me know what you think! X x x**

**_Chapter I_**

* * *

**_Santana's POV_**

It was early Spring when I realized I was in love with my best friend. I was ten years old, and it was supposed to be the worst day of my life, but Quinn was with me, and any day with her wasn't capable of being a bad day, no matter what outside circumstances were wreaking havoc on my childhood heart.

My parents had sat me down that morning and explained to me, in eerily calm voices, that they were getting a divorce. I didn't understand. Just that week, my father had bought my mother a pair of sparkling diamond earrings, and my mother had cooked my father breakfast every morning, like she always had for as long as I could remember. They held hands when we were in the car, and even at that very moment, the vividly red roses my father had surprised my mother with two weeks ago were wilting on the windowsill. So what they were telling me, that they had grown apart and no longer loved each other the way a husband and wife were supposed to, was incomprehensible to me. I just sat still on the edge of a hard backed kitchen chair, staring at my parents with my head tilted and my brow furrowed in my befuddlement.

It wasn't until they began to assure me that nothing would change _too _much that some semblance of reality snapped into me. They were talking about where I'd be going this weekend, and who I'd be spending holidays with, and which house my cat would be taking up permanent residence at. Now I understood. They wanted to change the routine of my life. They wanted to mess everything up.

I had never been a fan of change. In my experience, every time it happened, all hell broke loose. I wasn't stupid. I had friends who had divorced parents. Their entire lives changed when their parents split up. A life of routine was swapped out for chaotic weekends spent listening to arguing adults fighting over ownership of their child, with Christmases rushing from one home to another to catch a glimpse of each parent before the day was over, with a quick phone call every night to assure one another you hadn't forgotten them. I didn't want that. I wanted stability, I wanted familiarity, I wanted comfort and safety.

The morning ended with me ensuing in a screaming match with my father. My mother had more patience with me, or perhaps had more sympathy. She tried to calm the both of us down, but all the good that did was to aim my father's anger and guilt at her, and then I was cowering behind the couch listening to the two of them shriek at one another instead. Eventually they quieted down, asked me if I wanted to have a friend come over to spend time with while they called my abuela to pick me up and take me away for a few hours so things could "settle down." I called Quinn, and once my grandmother came and got me, we drove down the road to pick Quinn up from her house. Abuela took us out for ice cream and then drove us to the park, where I sat unmoving in a swing, clutching the chains with cold hands despite the fact that it was a warm day, and staring miserably at the dirt my sneakers were idly stirring below me.

Quinn sat silent in the swing next to me, watching me carefully with hazel eyes. We had been best friends since we were seven years old, and knew each other like the backs of our own hands. Quinn didn't say anything; she didn't need to. Her mere presence was comforting enough, and there were only a couple things more she could do to make me feel better.

My eyes lifted to meet hers, and she understood as though she could read my mind. Sometimes I wondered if she really could, because she always seemed to know what I wanted or needed before even I did.

She slipped off her swing, dropping the couple inches to the ground. The tips of my shoes touched the soil, but Quinn was shorter than me. I was one of the tallest in my grade. Quinn was one of the shortest, except for Rachel Berry. Quinn was insecure about her height, so I often made her feel better by telling her that at least she wasn't a dwarf like Rachel.

Quinn opened her arms and I immediately opened mine, returning the hug she gave me. As I became enveloped in her warmth, as the sweet scent of her shampoo sank into me, I felt my heart flutter in my chest. Quinn had always had that mysterious effect on me; I didn't know what it meant, but it had been happening more and more often lately.

She started to pull back, but I tightened my arms around her, squeezing my eyes shut and burying my face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, bending my neck so I could reach. She hugged me even more tightly in response. My eyes stung and my throat ached from the lump that was obscuring it. I tried to fight it back, tried to remain calm and collected. Quinn's hand on my back moved, started to rub gently in slow circles, as though she had sensed the tears that had escaped and were sneaking down my cheeks in dawdling, glistening trails.

My sobs were choking, haggard gasps of breath by the time I felt a sturdy hand land on my shoulder gently nudge me back. My Abuela stood behind me, her mouth a thin, grim line. Quinn softly withdrew from me, so I turned to sob into my grandmother's expectant arms.

"Come here, _nieta_," Abuela murmured, shuffling back to bring me slowly with her. I heard her ask Quinn to give us a moment, and judging by the squeak of rusty chains, Quinn had sat down in her swing again. I walked on blindly with my face buried in my grandmother's side as she led me across the park to sit on the bench with her beneath the tall oak tree that was Quinn and I's second favorite tree ever to climb.

"I—don't—want—them—to—divorce!" I wailed, my thin chest rising and falling rapidly under the onslaught of new, fresh tears that poured down my cheeks.

"Hush," said Abuela, a stern snap in her raspy voice that caused me to take a wild inhale of breath, desperately trying to control my breathing so I could get my weeping under control. "Now, listen here. Your parents love you very much, Santana. They aren't trying to hurt you. Sometimes, adults do foolish things, like marry too young, and they don't realize they are not compatible. It is sad you have to go through something like this at such a young age, but you should be happy for them, child, for they are on their way to finding their own happiness."

I remembered the anguished, furious expressions on my parents' faces as they screamed at each other this morning. On their way to finding their own happiness? They had been happy a week ago, when the three of us and Quinn went to the movie theater. My parents had been holding hands; I could see their entwined fingers, their arms resting on the armrest between their chairs. They were not happy this morning. It had only been since they mentioned divorce that they appeared unhappy.

My abuela wasn't one to argue with. To my ten-year old self, she was a scary woman, strict and full of traditional values that came off as unyielding and judgmental to the views held by modern society. In fact, I couldn't believe she seemed so keen and accepting of my parents' choices at all. I stared forward, my gaze lingering on Quinn's distant figure, her swing moving back and forth a fraction at a time as she leisurely swept her legs in and out below her seat. I thought of all the Sunday mornings spent with Quinn in church with her family; my own parents weren't religious, but my abuela definitely was, and one thing was for certain: I had listened to many a negative sermon about divorce.

"But the Bible says that divorce is a sin, Abuela," I said, my voice cracking when I spoke the word. _Divorce._ It had never sounded like as evil as it did now.

"_Si,_ the Bible does say that. But the Bible also says that eating pork is a sin, did you know that?"

I shook my head numbly. Quinn was reading the Bible, and she tried to get me to read it with her on more than one occassion. I grew bored after the first couple pages, and it was hard to understand.

"Times are different now, _nieta_. The only true sin would be your parents remaining together when it is clear they are no longer fit for one another."

A small part of me wondered if maybe my grandmother was more supportive of this decision than she should be. She was my father's mother, and apparently had not always been particularly fond of my mother. My father was a prominent doctor, after all. My mother was an accountant. But still, was that enough to mean they weren't fit for one another anymore? And if you aren't fit for each other…were you ever in the first place?

I thought about my life growing up. I had thought my parents were happy. Every laugh, every kiss they shared in front of me, every time my father brought flowers home and my mother beamed at him. If that wasn't happiness, what was?

"Maybe no one should ever get married," I said bitterly. Because if what my parents had wasn't love, then love must not even exist.

"_Dios_ _mío_, _nieta_, catch on," said my grandmother sharply. "People who are in love should get married, because they are confessing their love before the Almighty Lord. People should just not make that type of commitment unless they are_ truly_ in love with one another."

"But how do you know people truly love each other?" I insisted, helplessly overwrought by memories of my parents together. It was like my brain was sifting through a storage of them, searching desperately for proof that they really did love one another, that every laugh and kiss wasn't just fake and a lie, that they were in love and they had just forgotten and this divorce was a big mistake—

"You just know," spoke Abuela. "When you fall in love one day, _nieta_, you will know. You will think about him all the time, you will want to spend all of your time with him. He'll be the first thing on your mind when you wake in the morning, and the last before you fall asleep at night. You would do anything for him, and he makes you a better person. He calms you when you are feeling like a storm, he inspires you when you are feeling cold and empty. He will be someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, and have a family with. Someone to grow old with," said Abuela, and her voice grew slightly quieter with the last sentence, more somber, and I knew she was thinking of my grandfather. He had died two years ago. "You will love him so much, _nieta_."

My gaze was still focused on Quinn, who still sat in the swing, each lazy sweep of her leg moving the swing slightly with a protesting whine from the rusted chains. A thought occurred to me, and my eyes widened slightly as the implications of my grandmother's words sank into me.

"Are you supposed to fall in love with your best friend, Abuela?" I asked almost inaudibly, my voice still hoarse from my tears and emotions.

"Yes, child," said Abuela, sounding pleased that I caught on so fast. "He will be your best friend, only more. I know you are young and cannot understand this…think of him as a best friend you want to kiss," she added with a chuckle.

My mouth felt dry, so I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and chewed on it, much like Quinn did when she was nervous. Why was I nervous though?

Quinn was my best friend. Since we had first met, she had always done funny things to me. She had a…weird effect on me. She made me giddy with happiness, she always calmed me down when I was angry (especially when I was about to beat up Rachel Berry on the playground when she would climb to the top of the highest slide and stay up there singing opera at the top of her lungs), she excited me when I was bored and was the only person that could motivate me to get out of bed Saturday mornings just so we could go watch cartoons downstairs whenever she spent the night on Fridays. I was always thinking about her, from the moment I woke up and even in my dreams at night, I thought about her, wondering what she was doing and reminiscing about fun times we had together and wishing we were hanging out at that very moment. I could never get enough of her; I always wanted to be around her, to be in her presence. She was the most amazing person in the entire world; she loved Disney movies and she hated carrots and she wanted to write a book one day about a princess who tamed and flew around the dragon guarding her tower. She had the best laugh, and her smile was blinding and literally took my breath away.

Sometimes, we watched movies we weren't supposed to. PG-13 movies that our parents wouldn't want us watching when we were fifteen let alone ten, and when we watched people kiss on the screen, I felt my skin grow hot and flushed, and I became hyper aware of Quinn's body beside mine, and often wondered what it would feel like if _we_ kissed. Her lips were really nice-looking, pink and soft. Sometimes I could almost convince myself that I should just try it, that I should ask her what would happen if we tried it. I didn't understand, because at school, other girls would talk about kissing boys, but I never thought about that. I thought about what it would be like to kiss Quinn, and to hold her hand, and to give her flowers and cook her breakfast every morning just like my parents had done. I could only make toast and cereal, but I could probably scramble eggs if I wanted, it looked easy enough.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking, _nieta_," spoke Abuela, a knowing smile on her thin lips. I jumped guiltily, wrenching my gaze away from Quinn to look fearfully up at my grandmother. It was weird of me to want to kiss Quinn, because she was my friend and she was a girl. I had a strong gut feeling that my grandmother would think it was extra weird. "You like a boy at school, don't you? Oh, I know you do. Tell me who he is, child."

I swallowed, my mind frantically racing, trying to weave its way through the many images of Quinn spinning through my head. I randomly thought of Noah Puckerman, the annoying playground bully who was always chasing all the girls through the grass when our grade played soccer. "His name is Noah," I lied, my palms growing sweaty.

"Noah, huh? Have you told him you like him?"

I shook my head, my eyes flickering back onto Quinn.

My grandmother gave a great sigh, a wistful smile on her face. "Oh, young love. Come here, child." She opened her arms, so I leaned into her embrace, hugging her back for a moment. "Go play, while you are still young enough to," she said kindly, so I hopped up from the bench and walked down to Quinn. "And let me see a smile on your face, _nieta_!" she called after me.

I didn't know why I felt so anxious. I definitely wasn't about to tell Quinn that I liked her. But it was the simple fact that…I _did _like her. I wanted to kiss her, wanted to keep kissing her for the rest of our lives. I wanted us to kiss even when we were old and gray. I imagined kissing her with a white dress on, and blinked under the realization that maybe I did still believe in marriage after all.

"Hey Q," I greeted her. My stomach sank as I saw how morose she looked as she lifted her head to meet my gaze. "What's wrong?" I said in concern.

"I'm just sorry for you, San," she said sadly. She stood, tightening her ponytail as she did so. "I wish this wasn't happening. I wish your parents would just…be happy. I don't like seeing you sad."

I reached up to tuck a strand of my dark hair behind my ear. "I'm not that sad. You make me happy," I said honestly, and Quinn smiled. "I'm glad you could come hang out with me today. Was your dad mad?"

She shrugged. "He wasn't home. He left for a business trip last night."

"Oh." Quinn's father was always gone on business trips. "That's good, I guess. He can't be mad at you. Was your mom?" It w as Sunday morning; Quinn was usually at church on Sunday mornings.

"No." Quinn laughed. "She loves a reason to sleep in."

"That's good," I echoed; my face almost hurt, like it always did around Quinn, because she always put the biggest smile on it.

I wanted to kiss her so much. When she pulled me into another tight hug, I seriously considered just turning my head and smacking my lips into hers, and perhaps I would have, if I wasn't scared she'd be freaked out and disgusted by me. _She_ was always talking about the cute boys in school.

I didn't even understand why I had such a strong urge to kiss her. It wasn't just because she was unnervingly beautiful. Her soul was even more beautiful than her face. It was just…everything about her. She was perfect.

"I love you, San," murmured Quinn, and I felt my heart give a jerky, irregular jump in my chest.

_Oh my God. _

_ Duh._

Why had it taken me so long to see it?

I was head over heels for her. I was in_ love _with my best friend.

I was in love with Quinn. But I was only ten years old! And it was a _girl_. Was that even possible? Wasn't that…_gay? _I'd heard plenty of sermons about that too, enough to know that it was terribly wrong. But, standing here with my arms wrapped around the most perfect girl in the universe, I couldn't help but to question that. There was nothing wrong about this.

I turned my head to brush my lips across her cheek, ignoring the electric tingle it sent through my entire body. "I love you too, Quinn," I mumbled, embarrassed by the effect she had on me.

But the words had never rang with more truth.

* * *

**_Six years later_**

* * *

I was presently lying upside down on the comfy chintz couch in Quinn's living room, my legs propped up on the wall behind it. Music was playing softly from the speakers connected to my phone on the end table, but I wasn't listening to it. Despite my carefully composed bored expression, I was intently listening to the conversation Quinn was having into her own phone as she paced back and forth, wringing her free hand in agitation.

"_No_, Finn, I told you, I don't want to—no, I said I_ don't_! Why is it so hard for you to understand? No, tell me, why?"

It was hard to keep a straight face, and not just because I was the biggest closet lesbian in the world. Quinn had been dating Finn Hudson for the past nine months, since November of our freshman year. They started dating after the first and only football game our grade ever won. How clichéd and stupid was that? And was it horrible of me to secretly get so satisfied and giddy every time they fought?

"Why are you being such an idiot? I don't care. No, I don't care. I'm just sick of listening to you. Yeah, fuck you too." I craned my neck to watch the upside-down form of Quinn pull her phone back from her ear and aggressively tap the _End_ button on her phone. "Damn it, why did flip phones go out of style? Hitting the end call isn't—"

"Here, throw this," I suggested, twisting around so I could grab a pillow and throw it to Quinn. She caught it and immediately flung it at the wall as hard as she could. It hit with a muffled smack and fell to the floor with a soft _phlump_.

Quinn blinked at it. "Well, that was anti-climatic."

I laughed, more at her disappointed expression than the fact that she just hurled a pillow at the wall. Her face split into a Machiavellian grin, and I ducked my head just in time as she jumped onto the couch, digging her knees into my side and the cushions.

"Ow-w-w!" I groaned, the word coming out disjointed from my laughter. Quinn plopped herself over me, lying half on top of me. My head was hanging painfully off the couch. "You're so fat."

"Oh, bite me," she said, grinding her elbow into my hip.

"Don't tempt me," I chuckled, ignoring the slight thrill I felt when I lifted my head to arch a brow at Quinn and found myself inches away from vividly colored eyes.

"Remember when we were kids and used to slap each other all the time? We should make that a thing again. Let's bring that back."

I rolled my eyes, scooting over so I could position my head against the arm of the couch and Quinn could nestle herself onto my chest while we wrapped our arms around each other. "So aggressive. Someone needs laid."

She sent me a cocky grin. "You volunteering?"

"You wish," I said, but my stomach went tight at the thought, my skin prickling with heat.

I had been in love with Quinn for as long as I could remember. Maybe I had realized it when I was ten, but I was sixteen now and the feelings had done nothing short of strengthen. She was, in my opinion, perfect. She was so smart, she was a total HBIC, athletic, fucking gorgeous, and a million more things I could go on forever about.

The only problem was that we both had a vagina.

We fell silent, our breathing synchronized as we lay there for a time, my fingertips tracing lazy patterns into Quinn's shoulder.

"Finn is so stupid," said Quinn softly. "He wants me to go to Puck's bonfire with him tomorrow night, and I've already told him over and over again that I can't go."

"Just tell him your dad's flying in tomorrow morning and to get off your back."

"I already have. Twice"

I sighed; as annoying as Finn was, neither Quinn nor I were genuinely agitated. It was hard to be, when I was so comfortable and warm, with this amazing, beautiful girl lying atop me enfolded up in my arms…it was hard to do anything but smile and fight the urge to drift off to sleep. "Finn is just an idiot. I can't believe you're still dating him."

"Come on, he looks good for my rep. He's Quarterback of the football team." I made a noise of regret in the back of my throat when Quinn pushed herself up to a sitting position. She pushed her golden hair out of her face, huffing a breath. "Maybe I _should_ go to the bonfire. It's the first game of the season, and you know this'll be the biggest after party."

"That's just because Puck's throwing it and he bribes Mr. Ryerson to get him alcohol," I said, rolling my eyes because everyone knew the only reason Sandy Ryerson supplied alcohol for Puck was for the off chance that Puck would get drunk enough to pull down his pants and bend over, which would never happen in a million years considering every time Puck is drunk (which is often), he makes certain he's surrounded by a gaggle of half-naked girls. (Emphasis on the _gag_).

"Maybe I'll just let him touch my boob," pondered Quinn. "That would be good compensation for him." I stared at her. When I didn't respond, she twisted her neck to look back at me, arching a brow wryly. "What? Over the shirt."

I chose my next words with delicate precision, struggling to suppress my smirk. "Maybe you should grope_ his_ boobs," I said seriously, and I really did smirk when Quinn rolled her eyes, snorting. "I bet he has weird, custardy nipples. Maybe you should lick one, just to see if it tastes like custard."

"Lick his nipples? I suppose that _would _fulfill any lesbian fantasies he has," she mused.

My face grew hot, like it always did when Quinn mentioned that word. It was the one thing I kept from her, my one secret from her. Despite how hard I tried (I had went on a date with Puck a couple weeks ago, for God's sake), I just couldn't make myself like boys. And on those nights that my stomach grew tight and hot and there was a pressure between my legs that wouldn't go away, it was generally with Quinn in mind that I touched myself, and her name on my lips when my breath tumbled out of me in a breathy groan.

Was it totally fucked up of me to use my best friend as spank-bank material? Probably.

Sometimes I wondered if she really knew. I mean, how could she not know? I would do anything for her, and my eyes practically bled hearts whenever I looked at her. I knew it was wrong and totally meaningless. Quinn would never in a million years see me the same way. I knew that, I understood it. But that didn't stop me from wondering what it would feel like to press my lips into hers, to feel that soft, pillowy mouth against mine. I wanted her in all the ways I shouldn't.

And I fucking _reveled_ in it as much as I agonized.

"Better try that first at least, before he has you begging me for a threesome. You know _you_ can't even handle me, let alone poor Finnocence trying," I teased.

"Please," said Quinn, rolling her eyes. "I think the real question is whether or not _you_ could handle _me_."

I snorted. "What's to handle?" When Quinn dug her elbow into my ribs, I hastily added through my laughs, "Okay, okay…I take it back. You might be able to take five minutes. But Finn could barely last one."

"I'll give you that one. He can barely last one with me, and we're not even having sex," she admitted, chuckling.

"Jesus. When are you dumping him, again?"

Her lips curved. "Santana…"

"Yeah, yeah, 'he's actually a sweet guy,' or whatever." It was so hard not to roll my eyes at her, and she knew it, because she nudged me again.

"You know, if I didn't know any better, I would say you're a jealous bitch," smirked Quinn, slowly lowering herself down onto her elbows, her torso hovering over mine again.

My heartbeat quickened, my breathing growing irregular. "And why would I be jealous?" I asked, struggling to maintain a flat level of sarcasm, but it merely came out as curious.

Her smirk spread as she continued lowering herself, her face growing so near mine that our breath almost mixed together. The ache in my belly and between my legs grew, white-hot and yearning. I wondered if she noticed when my eyes flickered down to her lips, lingered. _How could she not know how badly I wanted to taste them?_

"Because Finn gets to do all the fun stuff with me, and you don't," she said matter-of-factly, and her tone was so bold that my mouth fell open a fraction. Still, even then, despite my shock, the ache starting low in my gut continued to tear away at me, and it was a silent struggle not to arch my hips up into her as she lowered herself on them.

"And why would that bother me? You're starting to sound a little dykey, Q," I remarked, and damn my breathlessness taking the bite out of the words.

Quinn's smile faltered for a second, but she ignored the latter part of the statement. "Maybe you just want in on the action," she suggested, one corner of her lips tugging up in a smirk.

Despite the cold tremor of fear in my soul, I forced myself to scoff, and Quinn was forced off of me when I turned to put my face against the back of the couch, turning my back to Quinn. It was much safer this way.

For a moment, I feared she would keep going, because fuck our competitive friendship that always had us challenging each other, but for once, she backed down. She sighed, snuggled in close to me so her nose was nuzzling my neck and her arm could drape over my hip.

"Sometimes I wish one of us was a boy," she admitted softly, slipping her hand beneath the hem of my shirt so she could absently stroke my stomach, which was, you know, no big deal considering we did that all the time, but right now, I was pulsing for her between my legs, and my abdomen muscles went tight beneath her touch.

"Why?" I asked, the word coming out huskier than I had hoped.

I felt Quinn's body stiffen against mine, so she had obviously noticed. I went still myself, wondering if she finally realized the effect she had on me, wondering if she was repulsed and about to get up and storm away. But she only lay there, continuing to trace patterns into the skin of my belly. Her hand shifted a little lower, to where her fingertips were grazing just beneath the waistband of my skirt, and I felt a thrill of heat flush through my body because, _holy fuck._

"Because then one of _us_ would be the hot football jock, and we could just date each other," she said quietly, her tone light and casual, but it put a tremor through me.

So Quinn would date me if I was a boy, or if she was a boy.

How pathetic was it that that seemed like victory?

I was soundless for a moment, before I said with a deliberately grumpy inflection, "You still wouldn't be able to handle me."

After her initial surprise, Quinn laughed. "Why's that?"

I shrugged, a half-smirk finding its way back onto my face. My breathing was shallow, my stomach tight and taut as her fingers traced the outline of my muscles, making a steady incline. "If I was a dude, you know I'd be hot as hell, and all the bitches at this school would be begging for it. I'd have a ton of experience under my belt. I'd play you like a fiddle, easy-peasy."

Quinn laughed again, more softly this time. "Imagination over experience, hon. You wouldn't even know what hit you."

_Fuck_, was there anything hotter than Quinn's confidence?

My smile froze in place when I felt Quinn's fingertips directly under my bra. She was stroking my skin still, but I could feel her against the bottom underwire, like she was _deliberately_ touching my bra. _What the hell are you doing, Q?_

"Mmm, you're just jealous that you can't have me begging for it and Finn can," Quinn egged on.

I scoffed for real now, not even the slightest bit phased under her blatant lie. "The only thing Finn has you begging for is the flu, so you can throw up and go home."

"Either way, you're jealous," persisted Quinn. She was fucking relentless. Her nails were scratching at my skin now, and the yearning in me increased, burning hot and potent through my blood, surging through me with the need to turn over and fucking _kiss_ her.

This wasn't the first time things between Quinn and I had gotten a little…tense. I didn't understand why Quinn flirted back with me, besides the fact that she was a naturally flirtatious person (like Christ, she could seduce the fucking waiter into paying for our own food), but it had been happening often lately. I had been flirting with her since forever, probably because I'd been head over heels for her since forever, but Quinn had not started flirting back until this past summer. I had no idea why, and there was no warning or set date it had started happening; it just had. Not that I was complaining, but…what did that _mean?_

"Just admit it," said Quinn in that smug tone of hers that I loved and hated.

"Admit what?" It was so hard not to press back against her. So hard not to curve my ass against her crotch. _Fuck_, I needed friction on my body, needed her hand to slip down lower, needed to taste her lips for the first fucking time—

I heard the slight intake of breath that hissed through Quinn's teeth when my body bucked without warning, only slightly, but enough that my ass rolled into her crotch. Her hand, which had still been lingering beneath my bra, dropped down, clapping a grip on my hip, as though she wanted me to roll it.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck—_

"Admit that you wish you were Finn," said Quinn, her voice uneven and her breathing coming out harsher.

_Fuck this_. Fine, if she wanted to play, I would play back, twice as hard.

_Hard_. Fuck. I resisted the urge to whimper.

I abruptly rolled over, obviously taking Quinn by surprise, judging by the way her eyes widened in alarm and she automatically scooted back. My head rested on the same pillow hers did, so our noses were very nearly touching. Never lifting my gaze off hers, I reached up, brushed a strand of golden hair back from her face before I trailed my hand down. Now both of our hands were under one another's shirts, hovering awkwardly on the smalls of our backs, obviously eager to be somewhere else but too uncertain to go there.

"Why don't you just admit that _you_ wish I was Finn?" I said, and clearly my lack of a smirk told Quinn I was _fucking serious_, because she did that signature Quinn-Fabray-arched-eyebrow thing, and there was no trace of amusement left on her face as she held my unsteady gaze.

Then she blinked, and seemed to contain herself again, since she resumed her smug expression and said, "You have no proof."

"Oh, I have plenty of proof." I scooted closer, noting it was a great sign that she didn't move back.

She arched a brow again. "Prove it."

I echoed the movement. "You want me to prove that I have proof?"

She nodded slowly, and my eyes were trained on the movement when her pink tongue poked out, partially curving over her bottom lip, wetting it.

_Oh my fucking God, what do I do now?_

I knew what I did now. I fucking kiss her, right?

Her gaze was on my lips. Surely that meant she wanted it? That that was what she was talking about? It wasn't just empty polite flirting, she was really flirting with me? It wasn't all in my head, just because I wanted her?

Her nails dug into the small of my back, nearly making me wince, and I felt fresh heat surge through my body, pooling between my legs. _Fuck, this can't be all in my head, right?_

I swear her head moved a fraction of an inch toward me. I swear her lips were pursing slightly.

_What do I do, what do I do? _

I was panicking. What if I had read the signals wrong or something? What if she didn't want to kiss me at all? What if I kiss her, and she pushes back from me all freaked out and disgusted and didn't want to be around me anymore?

"Prove it," repeated Quinn, and I swear I felt my heart shake when I realized she definitely wasn't looking into my eyes; she was staring at my lips.

She _so _wanted me to kiss her, and of course I didn't want to disappoint.

I tilted my head forward, my heart pounding, aware that I was about to have my first kiss with the person I'd been in love with for the past five plus years—

"Hey, Quinnie, got a second?"

Quinn and I both shot apart as though we'd been struck by lightning when we heard her older sister Frannie's voice drift into the room. Judging by the padding footsteps, Frannie was walking down the hallway. A half second later, her head popped into the doorway.

"Hey Santana," she greeted me.

"Hi," I managed to choke out. I sat straight-backed and rigid on the couch. Quinn was on her feet already a couple feet away, an equally mortified expression on her face.

Frannie's brows pulled together as her gaze shifted back and forth between Quinn and I, nonplussed. "What are you guys doing? What's with the hands-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expressions?"

Neither Quinn nor I answered; we were both paralyzed, blushing furiously and staring at Frannie with wide eyes.

After a moment of silence, Frannie lifted her eyebrows. "Oh-kay…" She stepped forward so it was her whole body we were seeing, rather than just her head. "Quinn, I need your help with this bouquet I'm making for Mom for her birthday. I can't find the silver ribbons and I've looked _everywhere_."

Finally, Quinn found her voice, though it sounded a little hoarse and uneven. "Did you look in Mom's bedroom?"

"Yes, and I didn't see it."

Quinn cleared her throat, recovering herself. "You have to look in the sewing basket, not the fabric drawer. Here, I'll show you…" she muttered distractedly as she shot me a furtive glance over her shoulder before heading toward the doorway.

"Hey, I'm going to, uh, head home." It was nearly dinnertime, after all, and I was expecting a phone call from my father. Plus, I wanted nothing more than to escape being left alone in this room when Quinn's mother arrived home from work. Quinn's parents were not the biggest fans of me, mostly because they were racist jerks, though I had to wonder if it was because they sensed I had more than friendly feelings for their daughter.

I stood up, trying to discreetly wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my skirt. Quinn's expression was unfathomable as she looked at me, and it made me nervous.

"Okay," she said simply. "I'll see you tomorrow at school. Text me," she added before starting down the hallway.

"Bye Santana," said Frannie cheerily, waving at me before she followed after Quinn.

I was trembling as I let myself out of Quinn's mansion-like-home, fumbled for my keys in my jacket pocket, and started toward my own home.

That was not the first time things had been so sexually-tense between us. The only difference was, that was the first time we'd almost actually done something about it.

And fuck me if I wasn't hoping for another opportunity to do it.


End file.
